


First

by Anonymous



Series: Musketeers Spanking Fics [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis is painfully good at what he does, Even when he's sort of forced into it, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, It's a spanking fic, Kink Meme, M/M, Spanking, With a lot of talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3790396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Aramis shifted back a little, crooking one finger towards him in perfect imitation of Athos.</p><p>“Come along,” he said gently, though the command was evident, “Let's have you.”</p><p>“Let's not?”</p><p>“Courage, Boy,” he murmured, “The sooner we begin, the sooner it will be over.”</p><p>Aramis was turning his hand to this with the same devastating talent he demonstrated in everything.  This was bad.  It was very, very bad. "</p><p>Basically, Aramis spanks d'Artagnan for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kink meme fill for the ever so eloquent: "My kingdom for a spanking fic - all the unfilled spanking prompts make me sad. I'm not fussed if it's for discipline or pleasure."
> 
> And because I've been trying to write on for months. It's not great but right now it's the best I've got and if I don't post it now, I'll probably just give up and delete it.

“I didn't say he doesn't deserve it, I just don't see why it should always have to come from me!”

 

They were sat around a table near the stairs in the smoky darkness of a taproom some two days ride from Paris, their room for the night having been procured and paid for on their arrival. They were tired, the warmth from the hearth had yet to penetrate their frigid limbs, and d'Artagnan was in disgrace.

 

“Because you're the one who always –” Aramis broke off, a distinct flush staining his cheeks. “I don't suppose you feel like stepping up?” he grumbled, putting an abrupt end to Porthos' sniggering.

 

“You know he doesn’t,” Athos said sternly, his hand resting placatingly upon Porthos' forearm, “and you know why.”

 

Aramis had the good grace to look mildly apologetic though his scowl soon returned and he resumed his pacing.

 

“I just don't see why it has to be _me_!” he cried, aiming a vicious kick at a nearby chair earning him a furious stare from their host who stood some way off polishing tankards with a filthy rag and attempting in vain to appear as though he was not eavesdropping.

 

“I'm out. Athos is dead on his feet. And he can hardly give himself a hiding, can he?” Porthos pointed out, casting an amused glance between the two of them. “Well,” he smirked, “I mean I suppose he _could_ –”

 

“ _Don't_.”

 

“Porthos, that isn't funny.”

 

Athos shared an uncomfortable look with Aramis, both of them momentarily drawn into their shared past and the darkness they had drawn each other from. With a heavy sigh, Athos relented.

 

“Very well. Fine,” he said, setting his drink down and making ready to heave himself out of his chair. “If you're going to be petulant about it...”

 

Aramis' feeling of triumph was fleeting. There was a displeased purse of Porthos' lips as the weariness in Athos' countenance made itself known and he wavered slightly as he stood. Guilt flooded through Aramis. The boy needed seeing to – and soon – and, though he found the idea distasteful and somewhat alarming, Aramis was indeed the only one either capable of doing so tonight.

 

“Oh, sit down,” he said resignedly, pushing Athos back into his seat. “I never said I _wouldn't_ deal with him.”

 

Athos smiled gratefully.

 

“Good man.”

 

“Yes, yes. I am the very best of men; this we know already.”

 

“That you are.” Athos inclined his head in acknowledgement, raising his cup once more in salute of Aramis' sacrifice.

 

“You sure about this?” Porthos smirked into his drink. “We'd hate to think we'd forced you into it.”

 

“Bollocks. You knew I would as soon as Athos cried off.”

 

“True.”

 

“Anyway, we can't have you doing it can we? Not with your _delicate_ _sensibilities_.”

 

“Aramis...” Athos drew out the name, warning evident in his tone. Aramis, when forced to do something he did not wish to do, could be at best peevish and at worst downright cruel. It was best to cut his scathing remarks off before he got into the swing of them. Besides, Athos reflected, his friend had brought this on himself.

  
None of them were particularly pleased with the youngest of their group but when Aramis had pulled Athos aside and told him in a furious whisper “ _This cannot go unanswered, Athos; if you don't do it, I will”_ Athos had nodded thoughtfully and taken him at his word. It was hardly Athos' fault that Aramis had yet to realise that his impetuous words when angered brought him nothing but unpleasantness.

 

But though Aramis was clearly reluctant, it was borne only from his anxiety, and Athos – indeed, Porthos too – was not blind to that. Aramis was unused to what would be required of him having never been in such a delicate position before, and his fears of inadequacy were causing him to strike out. He would, of course, admit to neither. But they knew that if Aramis truly objected then he would say so in no uncertain terms – _loudly_ – and so until he did so both Athos and Porthos were content to tease and beleaguer him into doing precisely what he had threatened earlier in the day.

 

“Suppose we've left him to stew long enough.” Aramis downed what was left of his drink. “But I intend to make it clear that I am doing this under duress.”

 

“Don't you dare!” Both Athos and Porthos ordered sharply. Jesting or no, Aramis of all people knew the agony it would cause if d'Artagnan were to think Aramis' care for him stemmed only from obedience to the two of them.

 

Aramis tutted, his final attempt to come through the ordeal and still hope to keep the boy on side thwarted.

 

“Aramis,” Athos commanded in a tone which brooked no arguments. “ _No_.”

 

Aramis frowned irritably, drawn between obedience and the urge to argue simply because he could – it was, after all, not his backside on the line tonight. He held Athos' gaze for a few seconds then, defeated, lowered his eyes.

 

“Yes, yes,” he shrugged coolly, “United front etcetera, I know.” He glanced over his shoulder towards d'Artagnan for a moment heaving a great sigh. “Wish me luck.”

 

“Always do.” Porthos clapped him on the arm and gave him a slight shove in the right direction.

 

“Absolutely not,” Athos protested, entirely feigned indignation darkening his face. “Nobody ever wishes _me_ luck – with either of you.”

 

“Now who's being petulant?”

 

Aramis took half a step then hesitated, hands tapping fitfully at his sides.

 

“You'll be fine,” Athos murmured, his amusement vanishing in the face of Aramis' continued anxiety, “Both of you will be fine. Have a little faith.”

 

Suddenly huffing a large breath, Aramis collected himself. He nodded once to them both, his face now the picture of determination and his shoulders set. Unseen by him, Porthos and Athos exchanged a look of fond pride in their friend.

 

“d'Artagnan!” Aramis barked, turning on his heel and making for the staircase that led from the taproom to the few rooms above, “With me.”

 

d'Artagnan, who had until then been hovering nervously nearby – though not so close that he could be accused of eavesdropping – quickly jumped to attention and began to follow. His steps faltered then stopped completely as he belatedly realised that it had been Aramis rather than Athos who had summoned him.

 

“ _Him_?” he asked Athos, the question coming out far ruder than he had intended.

 

Athos said nothing, merely tilted his head back and glared disapprovingly back at the young man. Finding d'Artagnan's disquiet rather satisfying, Porthos cocked his head and sucked air through his teeth, tsk-tsking at their youngest friend's behaviour.

 

“I didn't mean... It's just I thought...I mean, is he...” d'Artagnan stammered, suddenly finding full sentences to be beyond him. “I thought _you_ would want to _talk_ to me,” he finished weakly.

 

“Well,” Aramis interrupted before Athos could answer, descending several steps once more and looming expectantly against the bannister. Credit where credit was due, Porthos decided, for a man who had taken so much persuading in the first place, Aramis certainly looked every bit as menacing as Athos usually did in such situations. “You are certainly in need of a _good_ _talking to_ , but Athos is not the only one capable of giving it to you.”

 

“Big talk...” Porthos muttered to Athos, the two of them grinning into their cups.

 

d'Artagnan stared up at Aramis, his eyes wide. “Are you serious?” he asked, suddenly dropping his eyes to Athos once more much to Aramis' exasperation. “ _Aramis?_ ”

 

Athos turned in his seat and looked pointedly up at Aramis, irritation (on Aramis' behalf as much as his own) beginning to outweigh his amusement at the situation. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the deference they all showed him – d'Artagnan even more so than the others – it made for quicker thinking in the field if he knew they would follow his lead rather than argue the best course amongst themselves. But as he had told Aramis earlier, he simply did not see why the only source of discipline should be him. Porthos...he could understand Porthos' unwillingness; though he had once seen to Aramis, the entire matter was a disaster that had very nearly cost all three of them their friendship and despite Aramis' beleaguering it was a situation that none of them wished to revisit. Besides which, for whatever reason known only to d'Artagnan, he had never seemed to take issue with being ordered about by Porthos. But when it came to Aramis... d'Artagnan had initially shown a certain admiration of him too but had, at some point over the last few months, seemed to come to the conclusion that despite his vastly superior military experience, Aramis' authority over him was flimsy at best.

 

“Aramis.” Athos agreed at length. “And we've all had trouble enough from you today, don't you think?” Aramis would have plenty of time to assert his authority when he finally got d'Artagnan alone and where he needed him so Athos saw no harm in helping him along beforehand. “Go on.”

 

“I think he's waiting for you, Boy,” Porthos added, also beginning to lose patience with their young brother's impudence. “Do you really wanna try his patience right now?”

 

His blush visible even in the flickering light of the taproom, d'Artagnan took a few more steps, still wondering if they were all about to burst out laughing. Submitting to Athos' correction was one thing; Athos was after all accepted as their commanding officer when away from the garrison. Had it been Porthos he may still have been able to submit to it without voicing his incredulity as he had done. Porthos was big. Really big. And if he were of a mind to knock the waywardness out of him, d'Artagnan doubted Porthos would have much of a struggle on his hands. As it was, he had never shown any inclination to take him in hand as Athos did. Aramis though? The youngest after d'Artagnan, Aramis himself was often subject to Athos' displeasure for some folly or other – and hadn't that been an enlightening, if incredibly uncomfortable discussion? - the idea of _Aramis_ actually being the one to mete this out had never crossed his mind. Aramis was his ally against the others' generally more austere natures; his confidante and co-conspirator in all things be they romantic, spiritual, mischievous or otherwise. Aramis was not supposed to think his behaviour worthy of punishment.

 

D'Artagnan looked from Porthos to Athos, and finally to where Aramis still stood awaiting him on the staircase.

 

“We did warn you,” Porthos said without sympathy, shuffling cards before dealing himself and Athos in.

 

“Go on,” Athos prompted, without looking up. “Get it over with.”

 

Trailing behind Aramis as he ascended the stairs, d'Artagnan went to do just that.

 


	2. Chapter 2

As they arrived at their door, Aramis pushed it open and waited as d'Artagnan ducked past him, half expecting a smack for his earlier impudence as he passed. None came however and, brushing past d'Artagnan as he stood aimlessly just inside, Aramis began removing his outerwear and trappings, his back to d'Artagnan. No orders forthcoming, d'Artagnan sighed and began doing the same. This at least was familiar territory. Once, not long after their acquaintance had begun, d'Artagnan had been firmly opposed to an impending punishment and, in all his wilful logic, had refused to remove them. After the ensuing scuffle – which he had inevitably lost – he had been forced to endure Athos pinning him in place with one knee either side of him while he quickly undid the various catchments and dropped them disinterestedly to the floor before lighting into d'Artagnan with a ferocity that had left the younger man breathless. It was not a procedure d'Artagnan was anxious to repeat with anyone.

 

Glancing distractedly about the room – a dingy place, simply furnished with two beds and a rickety old chair in one corner – d'Artagnan fumbled with the lacing on his jerkin, fingers refusing to obey. Taking advantage of how long his young friend was taking, Aramis had found the time to light a fire in the small hearth and it crackled and spat as the flames licked at cold-dampened wood. Aramis felt the cold far more acutely than did the rest of them but d'Artagnan had the creeping feeling that on this occasion the fire had been lit for his sake – because Aramis wanted him to be comfortable, not frightened and miserable in an unfamiliar room with only his humiliation and the threat of an imminent thrashing to warm him. That thought touched him, whether it was true or not, and eased some of the tension enough that he was finally able to shed his outer layers until he stood in only his shirt, breeches and stockings. He turned to see Aramis similarly undressed and gazing uncertainly at his gloved hands.

 

“Aramis?”

 

“Just wondering whether to...” Aramis glanced up briefly, clapped his hands once. “Yes, I think it might be better.” He quickly removed both gloves and set them aside too.

 

“Athos usually doesn't,” d'Artagnan offered, wondering at the sanity of a person who would offer tips on technique to a man about to tan his backside.

 

“Yes, I know.” Aramis half smiled then suddenly turned and strode to one of the beds, seating himself at the edge and looking up expectantly. “Well? No sense in delaying any longer.”

 

d'Artagnan did not move. He suddenly found himself oddly breathless. It had not been like this the first time with Athos. There had been no anguished waiting for his sentence, only Athos leading him to a room and turning him across his knee so quickly that he barely had a chance to realise what was about to happen before it did. Even now, months into their friendship, when he had been so unfortunate as to earn Athos' corrections he was so accustomed to it that although the sessions themselves were truly awful, the lead up and submitting to them was almost routine.

 

Still, perhaps there was yet hope that what had never worked on Athos may yet work on Aramis.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

Aramis' initial surprise quickly gave way to scepticism.

 

“I mean it,” d'Artagnan said quietly, his eyes lowered, “I'm sorry. _Truly_.”

 

“I'm sure you are,” Aramis conceded gently, beckoning the lad over to him, “And that's a start I suppose.”

 

“I didn't mean to –”

 

“Ah!” Aramis interrupted, one hand raised in command for silence, “Please do not make this worse by saying things that are untrue. You are sorry; fine, I am glad to hear it. But do not insult me by telling me you did not _intend_ to do as you did.”

 

“All I was going to say,” d'Artagnan bit out, irritated by the interruption to what was a genuine apology, “was that I did not intend to cause so much trouble.”

 

“No,” Aramis agreed, his voice turning cooler to match d'Artagnan's. “You did not mean for us all to become embroiled in a perfectly avoidable skirmish. But you _did_ mean to engage them. You _did_ mean to ignore direct orders from all three of us. You –”

 

“What orders?!” d'Artagnan scowled.

 

Aramis raised his brows in surprise.

 

“You were told to stay within the camp last night lest you could not control yourself – Athos _ordered_ you to stay there not that he should have had to. Or perhaps you did not hear?”

 

d'Artagnan instantly flushed, his eyes falling to the floor again. Yes, he had heard that. And he had charged off anyway. Volunteered to take the pre-dawn watch then snuck away like a thief in the night to where their quarry lay in drunken stupor. The men they hunted had struck a nerve. They were too much like Lebarge, taking what they wanted from whoever they wanted and woe betide the person who stood against them. The matter would not even have come to Musketeer attention had the fools not attacked a farm on the far reaches of Crown property. d'Artagnan had had to convince Treville, and his friends that he could be trusted not to take it as some sort of revenge mission before they had allowed him to ride out with them. D'Artagnan had betrayed that trust – broken his promises and left his friends entirely unguarded until the first of the suns rays awoke them. He was so ashamed he wanted to cry just from thinking of it. But, with the ruffians so close and the acrid smell of charred farmland assaulting his nostrils, he had been overcome by the urge to strike and his brothers had been quite the last thing on his mind.

 

“I heard him,” he admitted quietly, knowing that no amount of explaining could ever excuse a would-be musketeer abandoning his comrades and leaving them to catch up to him just in time to save him from being gutted.

 

“You did not hear me telling you to get back?” Aramis continued as if d'Artagnan had not spoken. “That you would only get yourself – and us – into more danger by staying?”

 

Despite his guilt, d'Artagnan felt hurt explode in him at that as he had earlier in the day. Aramis thought so little of him – they all did – that they all felt the most useful thing he could do was 'stay out of the way'. Unable to help himself, he told Aramis that.

 

“You think I'm so incompetent that the best place for me is out of the way – waiting for all of you – in case I jeopardise the mission! If I'm such a liability then why bring me along at all? Why not leave me tied to a bed in the garrison and have done?”

 

“Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind.”

 

“ARAMIS!”

 

“All right,” Aramis soothed, hands held up in a conciliatory manner as he stood and approached the distraught youth. “All right, d'Artagnan. But you cannot deny that _on this occasion_ your rash, mindless actions very nearly got us all killed – bugger the mission.”

 

“I just wanted to...I don't even know what I thought would happen.” d'Artagnan sighed as he felt humiliation heating his face. What _had_ he been thinking? “I knew I couldn't take them by myself. I knew I ought to have waited, that you wouldn't have let me leave – any of you – and I knew...I knew you'd come after me; I just had to stay alive until you did.”

 

Aramis hmmed disapprovingly. “Well, you managed that at least – though barely. You're fortunate that I woke when I did or we might none of us be here to tell the tale. We could have been killed in our sleep you know. _You_ could have been killed, did that not matter to you?” He stared searchingly into the younger man's face then sighed. “Because it certainly matters to us.”

 

“I wasn't thinking of you,” d'Artagnan admitted, his gaze lowered as he considered the danger he had put them all in. He had never before been so grateful that Aramis was inclined to wake with the first bird. “It was selfish, I know.”

 

“It wasn't selfish,” Aramis tutted sympathetically, laying both hands upon d'Artagnan's shoulders. “Not entirely anyway. Your motives were honest enough, even if you weren't. We're as much to blame as you are for letting you come – of course you had to act; had we a little more thought for the situation we were allowing you to put yourself then we would have expected no less of you. But it _was_ foolish. And dangerous for us all. And just downright _madness._ Surely you must see that?”

 

d'Artagnan's eyes fell shut at that, the conversation taking an alarming lurch into more dangerous territory once more. All the same, it was...nice hearing Aramis set things out that way, nice to feel that someone understood his actions even when he could hardly bear to think on them.

 

“I see that,” he agreed quietly. “I know...I'm sorry.”

 

“So you've said.” Aramis' fingers gripped his shoulders a little harder and he sighed. “You are not a fool, so why you insist on acting like one is quite beyond me.”

 

d'Artagnan had to smile a little at that, the admonishment stolen word for word from Athos. Somehow he doubted Aramis would appreciate him returning the gesture by following it up with what Athos did – ' _The fact that that is the example Aramis sets you is neither here nor there.'_ To his surprise Aramis seemed to be thinking along those very lines.

 

“Really, I am flattered that you think so highly of my actions, but surely Porthos and Athos deserve your imitation far more than I.” Suddenly Aramis frowned, an uncertain look entering his eyes, and his touch gentled as his hands moved to grip the back of d'Artagnan's neck instead. “You know what I am about to do?” - d'Artagnan licked his lips, nodded - “Do you think me a hypocrite for it?”

 

“No, not at all.” The immediacy with which d'Artagnan said so took them both a little by surprise. True, the evening had taken an unexpected turn and d'Artagnan had certainly never envisaged such an event but a hypocrite? The very idea that d'Artagnan was not answerable to him simply because Aramis himself was fallible was ridiculous. “I mean, I do deserve it. Of course I do,” he said with a sigh, “I wish you wouldn't though, obviously. But I don't...I mean I'm not...I mean, I'm sorry they're making _you_ do it. I don't why they are.”

 

“Because you are equally as answerable to me as you are to them,” Aramis said suddenly stern now that his own concerns had been allayed. He lowered his hands and returned to his seat on the bed. “As I am to you, as we all are to each other.”

 

“So the next time _you_ do something stupid then -”

 

Aramis smirked, entirely unthreatened. “The very next time you deem me to be in need of, ahem,  _talking to_ , and are inclined to be the one to do it, you have my wholehearted permission. Athos will certainly welcome the break, I am sure.”

 

They shared a grin, both of them far more amused than they ought to be and d'Artagnan felt some of the desperate shame lift. Aramis did not seem disgusted by him or his behaviour, did not feel that this punishment was something d'Artagnan ought to be ashamed of. In fact it did not feel half so terrifying or as humiliating as when Athos disciplined him. Not that Athos was a tyrant about it, but there was definitely something to be said for this almost gentle repartee beforehand. So yes, it was...different to be here with Aramis as opposed to Athos, but  if he were honest, it had probably only been a matter of time.

 

“When you're quite finished...” Aramis' fond murmur broke through d'Artagnan's musings, startling him back into a present that was not nearly so frightening as it had been minutes earlier, “I rather think we should get on now.”

 

d'Artagnan made a quiet noise of assent, took several steps towards him then stopped, overcome, as Aramis shifted back a little, crooking one finger towards him in perfect imitation of Athos.

 

“Come along,” he said gently, though the command was evident, “Let's have you.”

 

“Let's not?” d'Artagnan hedged. He was, after all, at peace with Aramis, not the punishment itself. 

 

Aramis dropped his face, smiled a little, fondly exasperated and entirely sympathetic to his young friend's situation. “Courage, Boy,” he murmured, “The sooner we begin, the sooner it will be over.”

 

The beckoning fingers were suddenly replaced by an outstretched hand, and though his manner lacked all the commanding nature of Athos', d'Artagnan suddenly felt himself no less compelled to obey. He could not however, resist just one last plea or clemency though if he were honest he had not held much hope from the moment his friends had arrived on the scene that morning.

 

“I really am sorry.”

 

Aramis said nothing, let his raised brows do the talking for him. d'Artagnan paused, readying himself then laid himself gingerly across the older man's lap.


	3. Chapter 3

If d'Artagnan had been in any doubt that he was about to fall foul of Aramis' first ever attempt at spanking, it was quickly dispelled. Where Athos could have his victim positioned and settled within seconds, Aramis took an inordinate amount of time to do so. 

“You'll have to forgive me, d'Artagnan,” he said, pulling d'Artagnan closer in to his stomach for the umpteenth time, “But this is not something I have done before. I am...unpractised.”

“Yes, so I gather,” d'Artagnan replied through gritted teeth. “Please take your ti – OW!”

His body jerked from the impact of Aramis' first smack; upsettingly firm and unexpectedly hard, it fell just below the left buttock and was quickly followed by an identical one to his right. As Aramis began to fall into a rhythm, d'Artagnan vaguely registered and was thankful that Aramis had either neglected or forgotten to remove his breeches and bare him as Athos would have. For an unpractised hand, Aramis' technique was quite distressing enough without the added humiliation of being naked from the waist down, thank you.

D'Artagnan would forever claim it was the unsettling novelty of having Aramis punish him but for whatever reason, it did not take long for Aramis' relentless swatting to have an effect. Two dozen smacks – over breeches no less – and d'Artagnan could already feel his legs aching with the desire to kick; he could not humiliate himself so though – the very idea of it! But oh! Aramis was turning his hand to this with the same devastating talent he demonstrated in everything. This was bad. It was very, very bad. The pain was different than with Athos. Where Athos was sharpness and speed and silence but for the occasional clipped-toned admonishment – all of which he used to devastating effect – Aramis was burning heat that spread gradually though no less intensely as his hand rose and fell in predictable circuits of rhythmic but unhurried cadence until d'Artagnan found himself near-wriggling with the desire to avoid the next blow.

“Are you always this squirmy?”

d'Artagnan choked a breath as a particularly hard smack fell low on his thigh in retaliation for the foot that had – inevitably it seemed – been thrust up to cover himself and narrowly avoided kicking Aramis in the face. With a stifled groan of mortification, he lowered his foot, pressed harshly into the rough, uneven floorboards with his toes until they began to go numb with the pressure. Squirmy, Aramis had said. Squirmy. What sort of a word was that? It was an Aramis sort of word, his mind supplied quite readily. He was full of them, these odd juvenile sounding words that would sound ridiculous coming from any mouth but his but that just somehow fit when he said them. Usually d'Artagnan quite liked them, enjoyed the way Porthos would blink uncomprehendingly and shake his head in affectionate exasperation, and Athos would sigh a little as though each word from Aramis' mouth was of personal disappointment to him but the corner of his mouth would rise ever so slightly because Athos found Aramis to be a lot of things but a disappointment had never once been one of them. Today, and in that moment in particular, d'Artagnan did not enjoy Aramis' word choice. Squirmy. Even the sound of it made him feel squirmy.

“No!” d'Artagnan spat, because if Aramis was insistent on causing him to lose control of his own limbs in this way then he could at least be sensitive about it. “But you're...you're doing it too – ah! - too hard!”

Aramis did not reply for a moment but d'Artagnan felt the huff of laughter all the same.

“I thought I was being rather lenient to be perfectly honest, given the circumstances.”

“Well, you're – mmpf!” d'Artagnan broke off, suddenly burying his face in the bedspread before him as he tried to stifle his moan as Aramis' attention fell upon the crease of his bottom. Unable to help himself, he threw one hand behind him in an attempt to shield himself from the onslaught. “You're not.”

“Rest assured, my dearest d'Artagnan,” Aramis said and d'Artagnan could hear the smile in his voice even as the older man took a firm grasp of his shielding hand and matter-of-factly secured it at the small of his back, “I shall take that under consideration.”

d'Artagnan rather thought he might be lying about that as no sooner had the words left Aramis' mouth than the pace increased and he was left near panting for breath between each smack. This was very, very bad. And he had already exhausted all possible – and humiliating – ways to protect himself. The only path left open to him was...well, begging.

“Aramis,” d'Artagnan gasped at length, the burning in his hindquarters beginning to outweigh any thoughts of dignity or proudly kept silence. There was a stinging behind his eyes that could not be ignored for much longer. “Please stop. Please...I'm sorry.”

To his surprise and momentary relief, Aramis did so, resting his hand upon d'Artagnan's cloth-clad bottom and rubbing ever so slightly. He even released his hand and made no comment as d'Artagnan drew it back to his face to scrub surreptitiously at his eyes.

“You have already said that, but, as I did then, I accept your apology.” Aramis raised his other hand then rested it upon d'Artagnan's back, and even went so far as to hush him a little. 

Finally, after a minute or so of still being held in place with no word forthcoming regarding when he might be permitted to stand, d'Artagnan felt the first real threat of tears clouding his vision. They were not finished, he realised. Athos did that occasionally – took him right up to the point at which d'Artagnan realised he was about to cry then stopped, gave him time to collect himself a little before moving on. 

“Lift up please,” Aramis said at last, a light tap to his hip reawakening d'Artagnan from whatever trance he had fallen into. For a moment d'Artagnan did not comprehend, heard only the gentle urging from his friend and obeyed it without question, raised himself up slightly from Aramis' sturdy thighs. Then there were fingers deftly undoing the lacings on his undergarments and they were being edged further down his legs and he could do little more than whine in mortification as he was finally bared, could only imagine the image he presented.

“Hush now,” Aramis instructed, “I know it is hard, but you really are doing ever so well.”

d'Artagnan laughed then, a tiny wet-sounding huff against the bed. “Thanks.” 

Aramis hummed in appreciation for d'Artagnan's manners, squeezed momentarily more firmly where his arm had returned to circle the youth's waist. “I'm going to go on now,” he warned almost regretfully, “But please don't hold back on my account – and don't concern yourself with any others overhearing. One could probably scream bloody murder in this place and no one would come.”

It was kind, almost sweet of Aramis to feel the need to give his permission for d'Artagnan to make a ruckus...if a little threatening that he intended to give d'Artagnan reason to 'scream bloody murder'. As it happened, d'Artagnan held his silence for some time once Aramis began again though not through choice. The shock and white-hot agony of Aramis' renewed efforts upon his now entirely unprotected bottom rendered d'Artagnan momentarily speechless, unable to do anything but claw his hands into the blanket beneath him and clutch it to his face, desperate to hide his tears. Eventually, as he once more became acclimatised to the throbbing burn that Aramis' hand was continuing to stoke as the punishing blows continued to fall, d'Artagnan could bear to silence his crying no longer. He raised his head from the suffocating refuge of the scratchy bedspread and found himself positively howling his upset.

Seemingly startled, Aramis' rhythm momentarily faltered and d'Artagnan felt the legs beneath his stomach go suddenly tight. He did not pay that much heed however as, now that he had started, he continued to sob out his feelings – his guilt, frustration, and pain all warring to be given voice though coherent speech seemed suddenly to be entirely beyond his reach.

“All right,” Aramis soothed, sounding oddly breathless. His swats lightening and slowing until they were little more than pats though as sore as the younger was, they still seemed to explode across his aching backside as painfully as even Athos' harshest smacks ever did. “All right, d'Artagnan. Just...just try to listen now, hm?”

d'Artagnan nodded, knowing from sad experience that if Aramis intended now to once more channel Athos, there would now be a discussion of his misdeeds. Aramis, for all he had differed in technique from Athos so far, did not disappoint.

“I said that we were as much to blame as you earlier,” Aramis began quietly, forcing d'Artagnan to at least try to quieten in order to hear him. “I shouldn't have, because we're not. We...we were unthinking perhaps, but we ought to be able to trust you not to do such ridiculous things even if you do feel as though you have good reason...which you didn't, by the way.”

d'Artagnan huffed miserably but, as Aramis had not directly invited a reply, did not offer any answers.

“It was dangerous,” the gentle chiding continued, “not just for you but for us. D'Artagnan, abandoning your post is unacceptable – no matter the reasoning or how long you are gone. It is the kind of disregard that will get you and those around you killed. There is no excuse.”

The young man nodded earnestly, his crying intensified by the shame he felt at Aramis' words. “I know,” he said finally, the words muffled against his folded arms.

“It...” Aramis halted, his voice when he continued sounding resigned but determined, “It is sort of behaviour that will ensure you never earn a commission in the musketeers.”

Upon hearing those words, d'Artagnan broke immediately and entirely. His body going limp across Aramis' knees, he fell into repeated, desperate sobs. Yes, he had known his behaviour that morning was beyond careless but he had, in all honesty, not considered it to be so heinous. Or perhaps he had. Perhaps that, more than anything else, was why he had been so opposed to this. He had not dared to examine his behaviour beyond how foolish and how hazardous it had been for him. Oh! He had abandoned his friends, left them unguarded while they slept on in ignorant exhaustion! Yes, Aramis had awoken and they had followed barely ten minutes behind him and even if he had not then dawn was not so very far away but the things that could have befallen them in that time! How could they bear to look at him, let alone risk their lives saving him that morning? Of course Athos had wanted nothing to do with him this night! And surely Aramis was only there out of his misguided, ridiculous, wonderful assumption that any deed could be forgiven if amends was made. But what would happen between them once the debt was paid? Once Aramis felt his duty done and d'Artagnan's conscience eased they would surely want nothing more to do with him. What was to become of him now? If he had lost their favour, and with it all hope of becoming a musketeer (for there was none whose judgement Treville seemed to value higher than that of Athos), then what was he to do? He could not remain in Paris; he had no income, no patron, and he had never thought to seek friendship outside the garrison! And yet he could not return to Lupiac, not when all that remained was the sad, crumbling ashes of everything he had once known. He could no longer summon the strength required to wail, could only bury his face once more and weep. Whatever Aramis may think of his appalling lack of control could be no worse than what he already thought of him.

“Shhh. Hush now.”

d'Artagnan paused in his tears, choked back a sob as the gentle voice broke through his self-condemnation. Lost to his despair and suddenly noticing that he was without the steady rise and fall of Aramis' hand to ground him, he felt almost bereft. He swallowed, desperately trying to obey and thus not add yet more disobedience to his seeming ever-growing list of sins against his friends.

“Good,” Aramis breathed, the word elongated to match the gentle rub of his hand against d'Artagnan's back: 'goooooood'. “Just breathe. Say whatever you like in a moment, but just try to breathe for now, hm?”

d'Artagnan nodded, feeling his chest tighten automatically as tried to control himself. Hesitantly, he began to push himself up slightly, testing whether he was yet released – released to live out his life alone and in the knowledge that he was unfit for the uniform he had yearned for all his life. Though Aramis' arm was still wrapped about his waist, it gave way easily enough and d'Artagnan stood shakily assuming from that that he was dismissed. His shirt fell back into place where it had ridden up but he paid it little heed. Modesty and dignity were very much a thing of his past at that point in that evening. He stood for a moment, still trying to stem his weeping but seemingly powerless to stop it. Finally he chanced a glance at Aramis who had remained silent but for the occasional 'shh' when his crying intensified when particular agonising thoughts entered his mind.

“Come along now.” Aramis pushed to his feet and set his hands upon d'Artagnan's shoulders. “Don't take on so.”

“I'm sorry! I can't-can't help it.”

The hands squeezed tighter for a moment. “Well, then,” Aramis said with a sigh, “There's really only one thing to be done, isn't there?”

d'Artagnan nodded quickly – instinctively – then, realising he did not know what that 'thing' was, felt his throat tightening anew. Blinded by his tears, he buried his face against the rough cloth before him, his arms clutching about his own torso in a self-hug. Gradually, though it felt as though he never would, his upset calmed and awareness began to creep in, bringing with it the sinking realisation that the convenient cloth in which he had been attempting to hide his weeping was in fact Aramis' shirt. He hiccuped, too afraid to draw back lest he lose the haven currently being afforded him.

“Better?” Aramis' voice thrummed pleasantly through his chest and d'Artagnan shuddered before forcing himself to step away.

“Yeah,” he lied, his eyes downcast, “Loads...thanks.”

A heavy silence followed and eventually d'Artagnan could not help but glance upwards. Aramis was supremely unimpressed, even through his still-watery gaze d'Artagnan could see that. 

“D'Artagnan, this will not do,” Aramis said sternly, hooking one finger beneath the younger man's chin. “Must I have you over my knee in order for you to be truthful?”

d'Artagnan quickly shook his head 'no', the thought of revisiting that position so soon being both terrifying and a relief. The idea that he may yet find himself there again lent him a peculiar sort of optimism and, resigned to his humiliation whether their friendship was at an end or not, the young gascon edged closer until with a sigh, Aramis' arms enveloped him once more.

“I'm sorry,” he whimpered, grateful that he was at least capable of coherent speech now. “Aramis, I'm really sorry.”

“So you have said...many times.” The fond amusement in Aramis' voice filled d'Artagnan's chest with warmth and eased the cold dread pooling in his stomach. “I'd far sooner hear 'I won't do it again, Aramis' than another apology.”

d'Artagnan smiled tearfully, head buried against the warm curve of Aramis' neck. “I won't do it again, Aramis,” he parroted obediently.

“What a fine thing to say,” Aramis said wryly, the smile in his voice evident. 

“I really won't! Just...please, Aramis, I can't leave! I have nowhere else to go! I -”

“What on Earth are you talking about?” To d'Artagnan's dismay, Aramis pushed him back a little to stare into his face, his eyes wide. “D'Artagnan! What-” he broke off, understanding lighting his eyes and with a huff of exasperation, squeezed the boy close again. “You are our brother, d'Artagnan, I assure you it takes far more than this to get rid of us. Believe me, I have learned that the hard way.”

“You could have died,” d'Artagnan insisted, unsure why he was arguing, “You've never done anything so bad – I know it.”

“One day, I shall tell you about the time Porthos, Athos, and I visited a hostelry in Rousillon, and you will hear precisely how ridiculous that is.”

d'Artagnan pondered that, his interest piqued as Aramis had clearly hoped it would be. With a put upon sigh, Aramis reseated himself upon the bed and smiled fondly as d'Artagnan lay beside him and wriggled until he could rest his head upon the other's thigh. D'Artagnan had to suppress a whimper as a hand descended and began to card through his damp hair – to be held and treated with such tenderness after everything that he had done and thought was nothing short of miraculous.

“It was perhaps...a little over three years ago,” Aramis began, his voice low and soothing in a way that made d'Artagnan want to cry all over again, “And the three of us were to liaise with a contact regarding rumours of grain smuggling from Rousillon across the Spanish borders...”


	4. Chapter 4

Athos and Porthos paused outside the door for a moment, listening for any sound from within to indicate whether or not they were interrupting. As furious as they had been with their youngest friend, they had no desire to humiliate him any further than they (and he) had already done. When all they heard was the occasional soft sniffle, they shared a brief relieved smile and Athos slowly opened the door.

Aramis, still seated on the bed with d'Artagnan curled beneath one arm, looked up as they entered, hastily raising one finger to his mouth to command quiet. The others nodded, lowering their kit to the floor gently before going about their business as silently as possible. Porthos knelt and stoked the dying fire, his chest feeling loose as it had not felt all day since they had awoken to find d'Artagnan gone. Athos seated himself beside Aramis' other side and briefly touched his hand to the younger man's knee, a concerned frown in place.

“He cried,” Aramis informed him quietly, huffing a tiny laugh as he dashed the dampness from his cheeks with one hand. 

Athos suppressed a smile – it had been Aramis then, not the peacefully sleeping d'Artagnan that they had heard from outside in the hall.

“Athos,” Aramis said as though his friend had not heard him. “He cried!”

“Yes,” Athos agreed, entirely unaffected by the revelation. “He does that.”

“Why didn't you warn me?” Aramis demanded in an outraged whisper.

“It never occurred to me that I would need to,” Athos said, a look of amused sympathy on his face. “You've enough experience to know he might, surely?”

Aramis sniffed harshly and dropped his gaze.

Athos sighed, glancing towards the boy briefly before returning to Aramis. “I apologise. I perhaps ought to have prepared you. One becomes...hardened to it – at least able to face it without tears of your own. For goodness sake, man, get a hold of yourself!” The last was spoken with mock severity and Aramis met it with a watery laugh as he raised his hand again to dab at his damp eyes.

“I wasn't expecting him to...,” he trailed off, his gaze dropping to the top of d'Artagnan's head as he smoothed his hand over the raven locks. He bit his lip for a second then - “Oh God! I broke him, Athos!”

“You did not 'break' him,” Athos said, jostling him a little but mindful of the youth currently resting on Aramis' other side. “I am certain he is fine.”

“How can you be certain?” Aramis shot back, his arm tightening protectively around their youngest friend. “How can you be certain that I did not truly hurt him?”

“Aramis.” Athos said no more, having said all he needed to with that one word. Having no words to describe his utter certainty that his friend, for all his anxiety, would not – could not – have 'broken' their young friend or even have given him any more than Athos himself would have, Athos poured all the affection and scepticism he could muster into just that name.

Aramis sighed harshly and covered his eyes with one hand. “It was awful, Athos,” he confessed from beneath his hand. “I felt awful. If this is how you feel after...after...then I am truly sorry, my friend.”

“He makes more of a fuss than you do,” Athos assured him, the ghost of a smile playing about his mouth. “But I appreciate the apology all the same.”

“I told him about Rousillon,” Aramis said in a small voice, peering at Athos from behind his hand then glancing towards where Porthos had frozen in his undressing.

Athos too turned to share a look of surprise with Porthos. 

“You must've felt bad,” Porthos commented, wandering over to sit across from them on the other bed.

Aramis nodded shortly. His eyes stinging once more.

“Why?” Athos asked in confusion, “Why tell him of that?”

“It's your story to tell,” Porthos added as Aramis shifted uncomfortably, “but what's that got to do with anything?”

“He thought...he thought we would be done with him,” Aramis confessed, eyes downcast. “I made him think that we were through. I never said as much but...that's what he thought. I needed to make him see – make it clear to him that this was-was nothing compared to things I've done.”

“And did he?” Athos breathed, his mouth strangely dry at the memory of that damned place and the almosst-tragedy that had befallen them there.

Aramis smiled and shook his head. “He fell asleep before I could ask.”

As one they looked back at d'Artagnan, his eyes puffy and lashes clumped together but otherwise looking peaceful and content, safe and blessedly alive in Aramis' embrace. The threat and fear of losing him still hung about them as it always did when one of them came too close and Athos moved his hand from Aramis' knee to tuck a stray hair behind the boy's ear, too desperate for that physical reminder of his continued existence to be too self-conscious of the implications of his action. He could not lose another younger brother, it would kill him. As if seeking to escape his thoughts, he stood and began to take stock of what supplies were left.

“You can't have been at it long,” Porthos murmured, as though sensing Athos' need for a change of topic. “Not if you've had time to settle him and tell him all that before we came up.”

Aramis flushed and, glancing up, Athos leapt on the opportunity to wrench his thoughts away from darkness and into teasing.

“You're too lenient, Aramis,” he said, the corners of his mouth quirking, “You spoil him.”

“Athos wouldn't have had you do it if we'd known you'd be so soft about it.” Porthos grinned.

“You weren't here,” Aramis protested, though he was smiling as he did so, “I defy you to do better when it's your hand reducing him to such a state!”

“No, thanks.” Porthos shook his head, taking Athos' seat beside them both. “I leave all the beatings to you sadistic bastards.”

“We're both very grateful.”

Porthos' smile widened. “You and Athos, or you and the Whelp?”

As though summoned from sleep by his oft-bemoaned nickname d'Artagnan took a great shuddering breath and came awake blinking heavily. If he was surprised to find himself the subject of such close scrutiny, he did not show it.

“You all right?” Porthos asked gently, cocking his head to one side to match d'Artagnan's.

“Mmhmm,” d'Artagnan said sleepily.

“Eloquent as ever,” Athos commented, coming to stand beside him with his arms folded.

“What I mean,” Porthos went on, suppressing his amusement as d'Artagnan sat up and hissed as his scorched bottom made contact with the bed, “is can we all just go to bed and forget about this now, or does Athos need to have words with Aramis?”

“S'fine.” d'Artagnan eased himself away from Aramis, his eyes downcast, obviously embarrassed. He took a shuddering breath, then: “I'm sorry. Both of you – all of you – I'm really sorry. It won't happen again, I swear.”

Porthos and Athos shared a look. 

“See that it doesn’t, and we'll say no more about it.” Athos said sternly, though his eyes were soft when d'Artagnan finally dared look at him and he smiled a bit at the relief on d'Artagnan's face.

Relieved from his duty as a human pillow, Aramis stood and stretched before stripping the last of his clothing down to his linens. His place vacated, Porthos slid closer to d'Artagnan and urged him back down onto his side – for all their teasing Aramis had clearly been very thorough if the boy's discomfort was anything to go by.

“Are you going to tell Treville?” d'Artagnan asked with a pitiful sniffle, gazing up at him apprehensively. “Will Athos tell him, do you think?”

“'Course we're not!” Porthos said exasperatedly, jostling the young man's shoulder gently, “What would we want to go and do a stupid thing like that for, eh? You heard Athos, it's over with now.”

“Even though we almost –”

“Hey! What the Captain doesn't know can't hurt him – or us – right?”

“Right,” d'Artagnan agreed. He tried to smile but to his embarrassment it made his eyes sting once more. It was with a tight voice he started to speak again, unable to silence his fears. “But what about if –” 

“We got the job done,” Athos said over his shoulder, sitting and removing his boots. “That's all Treville needs to know. Given how the job got done, it's all he'll want to know. Believe me.”

“You're quite remiss in your duties sometimes, d'you know that?” Aramis grinned, propping his head up on one hand as he settled into the other bed.

“Just as well for you three if I am,” came the somewhat scathing reply.

“'Course Athos never puts a toe wrong,” Porthos whispered loudly with a wink to d'Artagnan. Standing and clapping the youth on the shoulder, he too began to prepare for bed.

“Ha! Compared to you three? No, I do not.” 

Athos stripped off the last of his outer clothes and slipped into bed beside Aramis with a long-suffering glare. After a moment of intense but hushed arguing, Aramis landed with a surprisingly loud THUMP on the floor and for a moment sat scowling up at Athos' back. He stood and crossed the room to the others, rubbing his back where, d'Artagnan belatedly realised, Athos had quite literally kicked him out of bed.

“Mind if I join you?” Aramis asked, not bothering to wait for a response before urging d'Artagnan out of the way with a tap to his sore backside. “Porthos, you're with Athos.”

“Oh no – don't mind me!” Porthos grumbled, though his insult was entirely feigned as he obligingly took up Aramis' vacated place. “You just try 'em all out first, see which space you like best.”

They lapsed into silence then. Athos having fallen into a heavy slumber almost before Porthos had even joined him, the other three lay in companionable quiet waiting for sleep to claim them, the silence broken only by Aramis' occasional scolding as d'Artagnan's hand strayed to surreptitiously try to rub the sting a little.

“A'mis?” d'Artagnan breathed after a while, the lack of sufficient sleep the previous night, and the day's events catching up to him. He curled himself closer to his bedmate until he could speak without disturbing the others. “'m really really sorry.” 

“I know,” Aramis murmured back, turning onto his side to face the younger man and brushing an errant hair out of his face.

Feeling the last shred of embarrassment within him at being treated to so tender a gesture, d'Artagnan closed his eyes. He felt Aramis' breath on his face, whispering in Latin, and the feather-light touch of a cross being drawn across his forehead. Smiling at the by now familiar night-time ritual, he edged forward a little then paused, decorum and the last vestiges of self-reproach suddenly rearing their ugly heads. It was one thing to be held and soothed whilst suffering the immediate upset of a sound thrashing, but it was surely quite another to entertain the hope of it later when there were others present and his eyes quite dry. Still, he was exhausted, and that seemed to lend him courage. He bit his lip, watching the slow rise and fall of Aramis on the edge of sleep until, as though sensing he was under watch, the older man's eyes opened again.

“All right?” he asked, his brow creasing in concern.

“May I …?” 

Aramis'sface took on a look of utter affection so that if d'Artagnan felt even a modicum of dignity left he would have blushed to be looked at thus. Aramis shrugged – as if it mattered not either way – but obligingly shuffled down and turned onto his back, his eyes fluttering shut. After another couples of seconds of fearful uncertainty, d'Artagnan rolled more fully onto his stomach and gingerly laid his head atop Aramis' shoulder, his forehead tucked into the gap where shoulder and neck met. The older man sighed, one hand coming up to rest comfortingly upon d'Artagnan's sweat-dampened hair. Encouraged, he shuffled closer and suddenly felt his hand seized by Aramis who pulled it across himself until their position became almost obscenely intimate – not that Aramis seemed to care.

“There now,” Aramis mumbled, already sounding half asleep. “No more thinking. Just sleep.”

“And you'd better bloody be here in the morning,” Porthos said without turning, sounding a mixture of fond and threatening. “We'll come after you, Whelp. You see if we don't.”

d'Artagnan smiled against Aramis' shoulder. Thanking God for his good fortune – not only in finding friends so willing to forgive, but also for Aramis' complete lack of appreciation or need for personal space – d'Artagnan closed his eyes and was asleep in less than a minute.


End file.
